Bottle of water at the bottom of the world´s second deepest canyon, where there is no electricity or roads: $3
Mule ride to the top of the canyon, for those too tired to hike back up: $12
Egyptian anti-food poisoning pills, after getting food poisoning the first meal of the tour: Priceless
(Thank you Franic)
Thursday, January 31, 2008
America vs The World
Eighteen and female, traveling alone in Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia. American? Not a chance. But for Europeans, it´s not uncommon. With the so called 'Gap Year', a break between high school and college, you´re almost expected to travel somewhere and teach yourself personal responsibility. Thats one of the big differences I´ve noticed between people I´ve met. Not only do Europeans travel here more (with a stronger currency and perhaps a less violent perception of the continent), they travel here much younger.
I can hardly imagine being alone in a foreign land and still being a teenager. Yet I´ve met people traveling much longer and farther than myself-- up to a year at a time, covering the whole world-- who couldn´t legally drink here in the US.
But although this trip has highlighted a lot of the ways we´re different, it´s also highlighted some ways we´re similiar. We´ve all seen shows on TV demonstrating America´s geographic ignorance; a talk show host asking a person off the street to locate Japan on a map, and then the audience laughing (maybe nervously) when they can´t. For the longest time I assumed this was an American problem. But no-- it´s a world problem. I´ve asked Australians, Israelis and Germans how many states are in the US, and not gotten a single right answer. One person tried to argue that there were 50 states, until Alaska and Hawaii. Not that I know how many German provinces there are (14 or 15, the German in my group wasn´t sure of that either)-- but it surprised me because the world knows our language, it knows our television shows and our pop music-- but it doesn´t know us.
Maybe the world isn´t a small place after all.
I can hardly imagine being alone in a foreign land and still being a teenager. Yet I´ve met people traveling much longer and farther than myself-- up to a year at a time, covering the whole world-- who couldn´t legally drink here in the US.
But although this trip has highlighted a lot of the ways we´re different, it´s also highlighted some ways we´re similiar. We´ve all seen shows on TV demonstrating America´s geographic ignorance; a talk show host asking a person off the street to locate Japan on a map, and then the audience laughing (maybe nervously) when they can´t. For the longest time I assumed this was an American problem. But no-- it´s a world problem. I´ve asked Australians, Israelis and Germans how many states are in the US, and not gotten a single right answer. One person tried to argue that there were 50 states, until Alaska and Hawaii. Not that I know how many German provinces there are (14 or 15, the German in my group wasn´t sure of that either)-- but it surprised me because the world knows our language, it knows our television shows and our pop music-- but it doesn´t know us.
Maybe the world isn´t a small place after all.
Secondhand Horror Story
At an english restaurant in Cuzco our waiter-- who didn´t actually work there, but filled in for the owners when they needed time off-- told me this story. And it was in english, so there was nothing lost in translation.
When the owners of the restaurant got married, they took a month off to travel to England for the wedding and then for the honeymoon. The first night our waiter was in charge, the head chef died-- not in the restaurant, but in the hospital-- from gall stones. The day before surgery you´re not allowed to eat, because it can complicate the surgery; for four weeks the chef was told he would be operated on the following day, and for four weeks he wasn´t allowed food-- until he finally died from malnutrition.
When the owners of the restaurant got married, they took a month off to travel to England for the wedding and then for the honeymoon. The first night our waiter was in charge, the head chef died-- not in the restaurant, but in the hospital-- from gall stones. The day before surgery you´re not allowed to eat, because it can complicate the surgery; for four weeks the chef was told he would be operated on the following day, and for four weeks he wasn´t allowed food-- until he finally died from malnutrition.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Thieves and Liars in Cuzco
Cuzco is a beautiful city, let me say that first and foremost. But the tourist district-- being the hub for tours to Maccu Picchu, the most visited place in all South America-- is so heavily saturated with people trying to make a buck that literally every other person you pass in the street is offering you something: wool hats, matches, cameras, lunch, dinner, drugs, massages, tours, better prices than everyone else. And the easiest way to stand out is just to lie about what you're selling, to make it seem worth every last gringo dollar. The following is a guide to 'Cuzcospeak' based on my trip to Maccu Picchu (which was amazing and worth every dollar I should add).
--So if I leave tomorrow, how many people are in my group?
It'll be six people total, plus a guide of course. You and 5 girls, four of which are brazilian. Very good people. (Of the 26 people in your group, some of them will be from Brazil. I think one is female, I can't remember. Very good people.)
--The first day is mountain biking, right? Is the equipment good? Is there traffic on the road? How many hours is the ride?
The ride lasts about 4 or 5 hours; we stop at two important archaelogical sites along the way. The bikes are very good, good Shimano components. Only a few local buses travel on the road. (If we give you equipment, it will be crap {I'll put a photo of my bike online later, which I'm pretty sure was taped together. I also got two left-handed gloves.}. Chains will break, wheels will come off, seatposts will snap, gears will refuse to change. The ride is about 2 hours total, plus a few hours of waiting for people with broken bikes to walk to the meeting point. You'll see lots of culture, but nothing from Incan times. And aside from buses, you need to watch out for chickens, ducks, turkeys, pigs, sheep, kids playing and old people standing in the street. {After the world's most dangerous road, this ride was a piece of cake-- and my duct tape princess bike rode like a champ, carrying me to victory at the bottom of the mountain. Although I was reminded that this was 'an adventure, not a competition'}
--What isn´t included in the price? Should I bring money?
Everything except entrance to the hot springs is included. You can buys snacks if you want. (Bring money because breakfast might be a bun with a piece of cheese on it, and a juice box. And if you order the cheese omelette for dinner, not only will you not get cheese, but you won't get french fries either. And you'll want to buy a giant bottle of coke with every meal to share with people, since you'll get pretty thirsty after 9 hours of hiking in the jungle.)
--What time do we leave for the ruins? How long are we there? When is the train back to Cuzco?
We'll leave for the ruins at 4am to see the sun rise over the sungate. There is a two hour guided tour, and then you have the rest of the day free. You can leave on whichever train you like, probably getting back to Cuzco around 9 at night. (You'll wake up at 4am, but you'll never leave that early. Your group is too large. Not to mention, there won`t be enough beds at the last hotel, so the group will be have to be split up. It`s ok though, it`ll be raining when the sun comes up, so you won`t miss anything. You get to hike up 3,000 stairs, wait for everyone; fill out your name and country on your ticket-- one pen for 26 people, so more waiting-- and then get your tour. Be back in town at 4pm to pick up your train ticket. We`ve given you the fake name Guillermo Grasso, so don`t show anyone on the train your passport. And to save money you`re getting off halfway to Cuzco, and then look for someone with a sign saying `Julia Tours`-- no that`s not my company, but it's ok. Just follow everyone else; they`ll call everyone but your name on the bus, but just play along. Oh, and plan on waiting on the bus for about 45 minutes, since the terminal is a cage and the buses are arranged like tetris pieces. You`ll get to Cuzco sometime before midnight.)
--So if I leave tomorrow, how many people are in my group?
It'll be six people total, plus a guide of course. You and 5 girls, four of which are brazilian. Very good people. (Of the 26 people in your group, some of them will be from Brazil. I think one is female, I can't remember. Very good people.)
--The first day is mountain biking, right? Is the equipment good? Is there traffic on the road? How many hours is the ride?
The ride lasts about 4 or 5 hours; we stop at two important archaelogical sites along the way. The bikes are very good, good Shimano components. Only a few local buses travel on the road. (If we give you equipment, it will be crap {I'll put a photo of my bike online later, which I'm pretty sure was taped together. I also got two left-handed gloves.}. Chains will break, wheels will come off, seatposts will snap, gears will refuse to change. The ride is about 2 hours total, plus a few hours of waiting for people with broken bikes to walk to the meeting point. You'll see lots of culture, but nothing from Incan times. And aside from buses, you need to watch out for chickens, ducks, turkeys, pigs, sheep, kids playing and old people standing in the street. {After the world's most dangerous road, this ride was a piece of cake-- and my duct tape princess bike rode like a champ, carrying me to victory at the bottom of the mountain. Although I was reminded that this was 'an adventure, not a competition'}
--What isn´t included in the price? Should I bring money?
Everything except entrance to the hot springs is included. You can buys snacks if you want. (Bring money because breakfast might be a bun with a piece of cheese on it, and a juice box. And if you order the cheese omelette for dinner, not only will you not get cheese, but you won't get french fries either. And you'll want to buy a giant bottle of coke with every meal to share with people, since you'll get pretty thirsty after 9 hours of hiking in the jungle.)
--What time do we leave for the ruins? How long are we there? When is the train back to Cuzco?
We'll leave for the ruins at 4am to see the sun rise over the sungate. There is a two hour guided tour, and then you have the rest of the day free. You can leave on whichever train you like, probably getting back to Cuzco around 9 at night. (You'll wake up at 4am, but you'll never leave that early. Your group is too large. Not to mention, there won`t be enough beds at the last hotel, so the group will be have to be split up. It`s ok though, it`ll be raining when the sun comes up, so you won`t miss anything. You get to hike up 3,000 stairs, wait for everyone; fill out your name and country on your ticket-- one pen for 26 people, so more waiting-- and then get your tour. Be back in town at 4pm to pick up your train ticket. We`ve given you the fake name Guillermo Grasso, so don`t show anyone on the train your passport. And to save money you`re getting off halfway to Cuzco, and then look for someone with a sign saying `Julia Tours`-- no that`s not my company, but it's ok. Just follow everyone else; they`ll call everyone but your name on the bus, but just play along. Oh, and plan on waiting on the bus for about 45 minutes, since the terminal is a cage and the buses are arranged like tetris pieces. You`ll get to Cuzco sometime before midnight.)
Peruvian Politics
Graffiti is rampant thoughout South America, but in Peru you see a phenomenon unique to the country. A long bus ride will show you that every house, storefront, bridge, wall-- any flat surface facing the road is transformed into a political advertisement. And it's all local politics; so and so for mayor, he supports public works. Roads, potable water; anything to bring an increase in the quality of life (and hopefully work too). It's interesting to see a country so engaged in their political process.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Is Bolivia Dangerous?
The morning before I left La Paz, I talked with my hotel´s owner (whose brother lives in Raleigh, oddly enough) about perceptions of Bolivia. He lamented the fact that Americans supposed the country was dangerous, and therefore stayed away. Indeed, when I crossed into Bolivia, the guards told me only about 20 Americans a month came through the border at Uyuni; I never met another American while I was in Bolivia.
In touristed areas, there are signs posted everywhere proclaiming that 'Bolivia is a safe country'; and I tend to agree-- to an extent. Leaving La Paz for Lake Titicaca, we stopped at the scene of an accident. A bus had gone off the road and tumbled down a hill, killing ten passagers. In a country as poor as Bolivia, safety features so common as guardrails are unheard of; it is this poverty that makes the country dangerous, for tourists and citizens alike.
I told the hotel owner that I thought things would soon change for Bolivia. Already tourists are flocking to Colombia, and if that country can shed its violent image, then Bolivia-- with all its natural wonders, and embracing people-- can hardly be far behind. I can only hope that some of those tourist dollars will go towards making the country safer for everyone.
In touristed areas, there are signs posted everywhere proclaiming that 'Bolivia is a safe country'; and I tend to agree-- to an extent. Leaving La Paz for Lake Titicaca, we stopped at the scene of an accident. A bus had gone off the road and tumbled down a hill, killing ten passagers. In a country as poor as Bolivia, safety features so common as guardrails are unheard of; it is this poverty that makes the country dangerous, for tourists and citizens alike.
I told the hotel owner that I thought things would soon change for Bolivia. Already tourists are flocking to Colombia, and if that country can shed its violent image, then Bolivia-- with all its natural wonders, and embracing people-- can hardly be far behind. I can only hope that some of those tourist dollars will go towards making the country safer for everyone.
The Coca Museum in La Paz
The Coca Museum in La Paz was created as an educational extension of the anti-narcotics efforts of Bolivia, the United States and the United Nations. But rather than exist as a tirade against the use of cocaine (which the museum staunchly opposes), it provides a compelling argument for the continued farming of coca throughout Bolivia. The argument necessarily brings in the fascinating history of the Bolivian highlands, to which coca is inextricably entwined (and which I´ll try to summarize below).
-Archaeologists have discovered that Andean cultures chewed coca leaves as much as 4,500 years ago; more than 2,000 years before Christ.
-The chewing of coca leaves causes a reaction in the body in which oxygen is absorbed by the lungs more efficiently; obviously this is helpful at the extreme altitudes of the Andes.
-During Colonial times, the Catholic Church banned the use of coca leaves, having determined it was 'an obstacle to Christianity'. But when it was learned that miners at Potosi (the sole source of income for the Spanish Empire) chewing coca leaves could work longer hours before succumbing to exhaustion, it was quickly made mandatory and heavily taxed-- making workers even more in debt to the empire.
-Today, more than 90% of men in the Yungas region of Bolivia chew coca leaves (my bus driver was eating them like a bag of potato chips).
-In the late 1800´s cocaine was developed as a medical anesthetic; supposedly Freud was the first user.
-Coca Cola contained cocaine until 1912.
-Certain countries are allowed to legally produce cocaine; the US is the largest producer of legal cocaine, and is produced by a subsidiary of Coca Cola.
-Coca Cola is still flavored with Bolivian coca leaves to this day.
-To produce cocaine requires large amounts of chemicals you don´t find in the jungle; these are knowingly imported by western corporations.
-The US consumes half of the world´s cocaine.
-Archaeologists have discovered that Andean cultures chewed coca leaves as much as 4,500 years ago; more than 2,000 years before Christ.
-The chewing of coca leaves causes a reaction in the body in which oxygen is absorbed by the lungs more efficiently; obviously this is helpful at the extreme altitudes of the Andes.
-During Colonial times, the Catholic Church banned the use of coca leaves, having determined it was 'an obstacle to Christianity'. But when it was learned that miners at Potosi (the sole source of income for the Spanish Empire) chewing coca leaves could work longer hours before succumbing to exhaustion, it was quickly made mandatory and heavily taxed-- making workers even more in debt to the empire.
-Today, more than 90% of men in the Yungas region of Bolivia chew coca leaves (my bus driver was eating them like a bag of potato chips).
-In the late 1800´s cocaine was developed as a medical anesthetic; supposedly Freud was the first user.
-Coca Cola contained cocaine until 1912.
-Certain countries are allowed to legally produce cocaine; the US is the largest producer of legal cocaine, and is produced by a subsidiary of Coca Cola.
-Coca Cola is still flavored with Bolivian coca leaves to this day.
-To produce cocaine requires large amounts of chemicals you don´t find in the jungle; these are knowingly imported by western corporations.
-The US consumes half of the world´s cocaine.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Happy Birthday to Me / Death Road
Today, for my 26th birthday, I conquered the ¨World´s Most Dangerous Road¨-- starting at the pass above La Paz (which had a surprise snowstorm last night) you descend 6,000 feet or so on a mountain bike, in about 4 hours. The road at times is no more than the width of car. There are no safety rails. And there are parts where if you fall, you fall a thousand feet or more. Did I mention the numerous crosses erected in memory of people who have died traversing this road?
Its an unforgettable experience. From the snow to the jungle, ending with a detour through coca farms, and then sitting poolside to bask in your own personal glory. And as we ride home, ¨We are the Champions¨plays on the car stereo.
Its an unforgettable experience. From the snow to the jungle, ending with a detour through coca farms, and then sitting poolside to bask in your own personal glory. And as we ride home, ¨We are the Champions¨plays on the car stereo.
La Paz, Bolivia
Arriving early in the morning, we find a hotel and I head out alone into ¨the Witch's Market¨-- an orgy of street commerce where anything and everything is for sale, if you can find it. A common area between buildings, overflowing with fruit (fresh from the jungle) vendors; a street devoted entirely to shirts (pro wrestling shirts are big here, but dress shirts are everywhere also); a back alley with dozens of stalls selling blue jeans. It has a rough system of organization-- our hotel is near the ¨lights district¨and so when we walk out at night, the corner is lit up entirely with lights for sale-- but in the morning after a long bus ride, it just seems like chaos. People are packed into the road, the sidewalks covered with little makeshift stalls, and two-way traffic honking at whoever dares get in the way. After a while you get used to brushing up against buses struggling up the steep hills. After a while you get used to people trying to hawk everything from toilet paper to range ovens. It´s fun, in a dizzying kind of way.
Later in the day, we take a taxi almost to the summit of Mt Chacaltaya, and then ascend the last hundred meters or so in a breathless line. It seems like cheating, but when you´re 17,388 feet above sea level you don´t care; doing anything at this elevation is hard work. After an easier descent, we buy our driver lunch and then swing by ¨Valley of the Moon¨-- not to be confused with the different valley of the same name in Chile-- to see the sandstone formations. More impressive than the park itself is the drive through La Paz to get there. Built on a plateau that spills over into a daunting valley, there are thousands of red brick homes clinging to the cliffsides. Then there are sheer red cliffs and sandstone tunnels, all practically within the downtown area; probably the most beautiful city I´ve seen so far.
Later in the day, we take a taxi almost to the summit of Mt Chacaltaya, and then ascend the last hundred meters or so in a breathless line. It seems like cheating, but when you´re 17,388 feet above sea level you don´t care; doing anything at this elevation is hard work. After an easier descent, we buy our driver lunch and then swing by ¨Valley of the Moon¨-- not to be confused with the different valley of the same name in Chile-- to see the sandstone formations. More impressive than the park itself is the drive through La Paz to get there. Built on a plateau that spills over into a daunting valley, there are thousands of red brick homes clinging to the cliffsides. Then there are sheer red cliffs and sandstone tunnels, all practically within the downtown area; probably the most beautiful city I´ve seen so far.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
The Potosi Mine
Potosi, at 4,000 meters, is the highest city in the world-- all downhill from here.
Potosi exists because of the rich mining opportunities here; mainly silver and zinc, but also gold, are in them there hills. At one point Potosi was the source of income for all Spain, at one point its population rivaled Paris and London and the great cities of Western civilization. But something happened; while its brother cities continued to grow and progress, Potosi was exploited and then left to wither into poverty.
Today the mining continues, not for a foreign superpower, but for the people who mine it. It is cooperatively owned, and in theory it will uplift the people here. But conditions are so wretched and dangerous-- children here start mining when they are only 12 years old, chewing coca leaves to help their respiration in the dust filled mine-- it is hard to believe. Workers are injured every day; three die every month. The work is hard and the hours are long. A miner must bring in a certain amount of raw material every day-- pushed from the blast site through the small passageways to the surface in a wheelbarrow-- or risk going unpaid that day; they make $5.50 a day when they do meet the quotas.
Within the twisted passages you´ll find twisted shrines, a legacy left over from colonialism. The workers offer alcohol to one icon representing the mountain, believing that pure alcohol brings more pure loads and a chance at striking it rich (little bottles of 192 proof alcohol litter the mining site). Another icon, Tio Jorge-- represents the devil. In colonial times slaves were told that laziness would be punished by Tio Jorge. In time, the workers came to offer coca and cigarettes to the icon, believing it will protect them from cave-ins.
The tour itself leaves you shaking, literally. The blast explosions, unseen, but heard and felt enough to shake your vision, continue as you stumble back into the daylight. Crossing rickety planks, balancing on narrow ledges, climbing up and down the slippery gravel floor in poor light; we all agree that the two hours we spent inside the mine are enough. Five thousand entrances exist for the 15,000 miners-- but few exits from this grueling life.
Potosi exists because of the rich mining opportunities here; mainly silver and zinc, but also gold, are in them there hills. At one point Potosi was the source of income for all Spain, at one point its population rivaled Paris and London and the great cities of Western civilization. But something happened; while its brother cities continued to grow and progress, Potosi was exploited and then left to wither into poverty.
Today the mining continues, not for a foreign superpower, but for the people who mine it. It is cooperatively owned, and in theory it will uplift the people here. But conditions are so wretched and dangerous-- children here start mining when they are only 12 years old, chewing coca leaves to help their respiration in the dust filled mine-- it is hard to believe. Workers are injured every day; three die every month. The work is hard and the hours are long. A miner must bring in a certain amount of raw material every day-- pushed from the blast site through the small passageways to the surface in a wheelbarrow-- or risk going unpaid that day; they make $5.50 a day when they do meet the quotas.
Within the twisted passages you´ll find twisted shrines, a legacy left over from colonialism. The workers offer alcohol to one icon representing the mountain, believing that pure alcohol brings more pure loads and a chance at striking it rich (little bottles of 192 proof alcohol litter the mining site). Another icon, Tio Jorge-- represents the devil. In colonial times slaves were told that laziness would be punished by Tio Jorge. In time, the workers came to offer coca and cigarettes to the icon, believing it will protect them from cave-ins.
The tour itself leaves you shaking, literally. The blast explosions, unseen, but heard and felt enough to shake your vision, continue as you stumble back into the daylight. Crossing rickety planks, balancing on narrow ledges, climbing up and down the slippery gravel floor in poor light; we all agree that the two hours we spent inside the mine are enough. Five thousand entrances exist for the 15,000 miners-- but few exits from this grueling life.
Bolivia, Leap of Faith
Certain things scare travellers-- getting mugged, being kidnapped, dropping your passport in the toilet-- and these are things you work to avoid. But sometimes fate conspires against you, and you find yourself in a precarious position wishing for the moment you were home where everything is routine, and you know what´s going on.
I just got through one of those situations; first, I travelled to San Pedro de Atacama in Chile with very little money since I was about to travel into Bolivia and didn´t want useless Chilean pesos with me. But San Pedro exists for tourists, and as such is very expensive-- and the one ATM in town didn´t work. So far, that´s not a problem. I had enough money to pay for my Bolivian visa ($100, thanks President Bush for making everyone hate us) and there was one tour agency that took credit cards, so I left Chile with about $8 in the wrong currency and some emergency money in dollars. But things get hairy when you reach the Bolivian border-- a concrete shack in the middle of nowhere-- because they tell you need to pay for the visa, but that you can´t pay for the visa at the border, but rather 3 days inland at the terminus of the tour I was on. So they won´t take your money, won´t give you a visa, and won´t let you travel onwards with your passport, because then you would have no incentive to pay later. So... my tour driver held on to my passport for 3 days, joking that he´d lost it or left it at the border; so while everyone from europe or australia or brazil told me not to worry about it, I was worrying about it.
Fast forward 3 days-- we reach Uyuni, and retrieving my passport takes a backseat to everyone trying to arrange transportation out of this little dungheap of a town, which again has only one ATM, not working. But in the end, it all works out. I get my passport back, chitchat with the customs officials about studying in Guatemala, arrange a private jeep to take our disintegrating group to Potosi, and finally get to relax and enjoy the past few days. The altiplano lakes, with white, blue and pink water; the herds of llamas and vicunas, with pink and green tassels around their ears; the flamingos and salt islands; the picturesque rock formations; and best of all the Uyuni salt flat, the largest in the world, which was under about an inch of water due to the rainy season. It creates a reflection of everything above and around you, and gives the impression of you standing on a mirror, or floating through the sky. It´s really unlike anything I´ve ever seen.
And then we reach Potosi, me with a group of friends, and we celebrate being in a city once again. Working ATMs, restaurants, girls on the sidewalk; all the trappings of civilization. And once again I´m glad to be travelling. Bolivia immediately has a sense of beauty that Chile and Argentina lacked. The sun setting on the switchbacks, the simple pueblos at night, the abundance of stars you see at 12,000 feet. Poor and wild, at the middle of my trip I´ve reached the heart of South America.
I just got through one of those situations; first, I travelled to San Pedro de Atacama in Chile with very little money since I was about to travel into Bolivia and didn´t want useless Chilean pesos with me. But San Pedro exists for tourists, and as such is very expensive-- and the one ATM in town didn´t work. So far, that´s not a problem. I had enough money to pay for my Bolivian visa ($100, thanks President Bush for making everyone hate us) and there was one tour agency that took credit cards, so I left Chile with about $8 in the wrong currency and some emergency money in dollars. But things get hairy when you reach the Bolivian border-- a concrete shack in the middle of nowhere-- because they tell you need to pay for the visa, but that you can´t pay for the visa at the border, but rather 3 days inland at the terminus of the tour I was on. So they won´t take your money, won´t give you a visa, and won´t let you travel onwards with your passport, because then you would have no incentive to pay later. So... my tour driver held on to my passport for 3 days, joking that he´d lost it or left it at the border; so while everyone from europe or australia or brazil told me not to worry about it, I was worrying about it.
Fast forward 3 days-- we reach Uyuni, and retrieving my passport takes a backseat to everyone trying to arrange transportation out of this little dungheap of a town, which again has only one ATM, not working. But in the end, it all works out. I get my passport back, chitchat with the customs officials about studying in Guatemala, arrange a private jeep to take our disintegrating group to Potosi, and finally get to relax and enjoy the past few days. The altiplano lakes, with white, blue and pink water; the herds of llamas and vicunas, with pink and green tassels around their ears; the flamingos and salt islands; the picturesque rock formations; and best of all the Uyuni salt flat, the largest in the world, which was under about an inch of water due to the rainy season. It creates a reflection of everything above and around you, and gives the impression of you standing on a mirror, or floating through the sky. It´s really unlike anything I´ve ever seen.
And then we reach Potosi, me with a group of friends, and we celebrate being in a city once again. Working ATMs, restaurants, girls on the sidewalk; all the trappings of civilization. And once again I´m glad to be travelling. Bolivia immediately has a sense of beauty that Chile and Argentina lacked. The sun setting on the switchbacks, the simple pueblos at night, the abundance of stars you see at 12,000 feet. Poor and wild, at the middle of my trip I´ve reached the heart of South America.
Adios, Chile!
I´ll remember you as a country that changes landscapes daily, from the glaciers in the south to the deserts in the north, and with so much in between. And I´ll remember you for the pocketfuls of reciepts that accumulated daily; I´ve never been anywhere so rigorous about their accounting. Every product, service, tour, entrance-- all need to be recorded, in triplicate, white copy for the consumer.
Good grief.
Good grief.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Iquique
I was drawn to Iquique, at the last minute, by three things: first, its name. That may seem silly, and it is; but I really wanted to see what this Iquique place looked like. Second, the ghost town of Humberstone is near here, and I read you could arrange tours from Iquique. And third, Iquique is renowned for its paragliding.
But-- Iquique is not exactly a tourist town. Tours to Humberstone only leave on Thursday apparently, unless you have a group of 4 or more people; not much help when you´re traveling alone. And one look at the steep, steep cliffs that dwarf the town told me that I´d not likely be paragliding like I planned. I made a half effort while here to find a company with tandem flights, but one place was closed the two times I walked by, and another was not where its website said it would be (not the first time I´ve experienced that in South America).
So Iquique was kind of a bust. I was interviewed for a show on national tv about tourism in Chile, but I can´t imagine they would actually use my garbled, nervous-to-be-on-tv spanish for anything other than laughs. I spent most of my time wandering the beach, playing like a local: shopping at the Mall of America (I got a Lamb of God t-shirt), attending a free 1st chair trumpet concert, eating banana doughnuts. It´s not a bad place here, but it´s hot and easy to get sunburned. It´s like a wild west town on one side, poor, but with wooden sidewalks and unassuming desert architecture; while the other side could be a rich California town, with its square modernism and electric fence security systems. A funny town with a funny name.
But-- Iquique is not exactly a tourist town. Tours to Humberstone only leave on Thursday apparently, unless you have a group of 4 or more people; not much help when you´re traveling alone. And one look at the steep, steep cliffs that dwarf the town told me that I´d not likely be paragliding like I planned. I made a half effort while here to find a company with tandem flights, but one place was closed the two times I walked by, and another was not where its website said it would be (not the first time I´ve experienced that in South America).
So Iquique was kind of a bust. I was interviewed for a show on national tv about tourism in Chile, but I can´t imagine they would actually use my garbled, nervous-to-be-on-tv spanish for anything other than laughs. I spent most of my time wandering the beach, playing like a local: shopping at the Mall of America (I got a Lamb of God t-shirt), attending a free 1st chair trumpet concert, eating banana doughnuts. It´s not a bad place here, but it´s hot and easy to get sunburned. It´s like a wild west town on one side, poor, but with wooden sidewalks and unassuming desert architecture; while the other side could be a rich California town, with its square modernism and electric fence security systems. A funny town with a funny name.
The Great Atacama
Leaving Valparaiso for Iquique, another Chilean coastal town much further north and pinned to the ocean by the Atacama Desert, means roughly 29 hours on a bus as you drive first south to Santiago, and then transfer to an overnight coach. I´ve heard nothing but praise for Chilean buses so far, but this trip was awful. For lunch we had a shrimp, shredded cabbage and mayonaise sandwich-- which I couldn´t finish-- and for dinner we had a chicken filet and mayonaise sandwich, although I could never find the chicken. Mayonaise and a hamburger bun; that about sums up Chilean cruisine for me.
I did read about 200 pages of Garcia Marquez´s Love in the Time of Cholera, although that, or the interminable journey, or both, made me sick for home. I wanted to play music again, and I wanted to ride my bike to Waffle House, or Cook Out, or El Rodeo, or all three. To make things worse, the Atacama Desert, which I had such high hopes for, kind of appears and disappears without warning. After hours of dust and boulders and trash along the side of the road, you finally reach hours of sand and small rocks and trash along the side of the road. Tire tracks run like scars through the landscape, never to be washed away by rains that never come. Only at sunset does the desert redeem itself; the foreground gives way to the brilliance of the suns slanted rays, and the hills stand silhouetted against the everchanging pastels of twilight. But it´s all over too soon, and then your eyes are forced to the tv playing a low quality vhs without sound or subtitles. The desert is a melancholy place.
I did read about 200 pages of Garcia Marquez´s Love in the Time of Cholera, although that, or the interminable journey, or both, made me sick for home. I wanted to play music again, and I wanted to ride my bike to Waffle House, or Cook Out, or El Rodeo, or all three. To make things worse, the Atacama Desert, which I had such high hopes for, kind of appears and disappears without warning. After hours of dust and boulders and trash along the side of the road, you finally reach hours of sand and small rocks and trash along the side of the road. Tire tracks run like scars through the landscape, never to be washed away by rains that never come. Only at sunset does the desert redeem itself; the foreground gives way to the brilliance of the suns slanted rays, and the hills stand silhouetted against the everchanging pastels of twilight. But it´s all over too soon, and then your eyes are forced to the tv playing a low quality vhs without sound or subtitles. The desert is a melancholy place.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Jumbo Easy
I have seen the future, and the future is Jumbo Easy. Imagine if someone took Home Depot, Dick´s sporting goods, REI and a superWalmart, crammed them into the same place, and then plopped down a bank and a nail salon in the middle. That´s Jumbo Easy. Camping supplies next to frozen dinners? Why not? Now why the name is in english... that´s the real question.
Valparaiso
Valparaiso, or Valpo as the locals know it, is a city made for wandering. With patience and flexibility, aided by long hours of sunlight, you can explore the winding streets and side passages to find bursts of color around every corner. But be warned--throw your map away now; if you have a destination in mind, forget about it. The city´s Escher-like layout is unkind to those seeking the particular, and unforgiving to those looking for order or efficiency.
Imagine a funnel cut in half and folded like an accordion; that´s basically Valparaiso. To walk from one side of downtown to the other, along the coast, takes about 30 minutes. To do so any other way will take hours, and could take days. You might start walking up one of the many cerros or hills, and find the road splits in two; so you follow one road and it dead ends, but offers a pedestrian passage over to the next road-- but that road might go up or down a different hill, only to backtrack later to nearly where you were before. Did I mention many of the streets aren´t signed, at least not at intersections where it would be useful? Did I mention that with many of the streets you´re looking at a 45 degree slope? Did I mention that many of the streets that start in one direction will twist and turn, change direction and elevation and deposit you somewhere even the map seems to have forgotten about?
But here in Valpo the journey is the destination. Dilapidated grand old mansions aside makeshift shanties; more color in the houses, the flowers, the walls and streets than seems reasonable or feasible; old men herding alpaca up broken concrete stairs. Its a feast for the senses, a kind of anarchic free for all. Not something I´ve found anywhere else.
Imagine a funnel cut in half and folded like an accordion; that´s basically Valparaiso. To walk from one side of downtown to the other, along the coast, takes about 30 minutes. To do so any other way will take hours, and could take days. You might start walking up one of the many cerros or hills, and find the road splits in two; so you follow one road and it dead ends, but offers a pedestrian passage over to the next road-- but that road might go up or down a different hill, only to backtrack later to nearly where you were before. Did I mention many of the streets aren´t signed, at least not at intersections where it would be useful? Did I mention that with many of the streets you´re looking at a 45 degree slope? Did I mention that many of the streets that start in one direction will twist and turn, change direction and elevation and deposit you somewhere even the map seems to have forgotten about?
But here in Valpo the journey is the destination. Dilapidated grand old mansions aside makeshift shanties; more color in the houses, the flowers, the walls and streets than seems reasonable or feasible; old men herding alpaca up broken concrete stairs. Its a feast for the senses, a kind of anarchic free for all. Not something I´ve found anywhere else.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Once in a Lifetime
I know that when I get home, the question I´ll get most is 'what´s the most amazing thing you saw?' Well, I have almost two months left, but I´m sure yesterday will fit in at the top somewhere. Imagine for a moment, standing in the crater of an active volcano, watching another volcano in the distance erupting. My words don't really do that situation justice, but try to really imagine it: the sulphur smell, the sounds of magma shifting, the rough lava rock clawing at your boots, and there only about 60 miles away, maybe less, an eruption making frontpage news across the world. It's not scary but it should be-- cheering on one explosion of lava, while hoping the lava directly below you stays put. Wrapping my mind around that still makes me smile.
The descent of the volcano is worth mentioning too; you climb up trudging like a pack mule. But coming down you squat, lean back and slide for all your worth, using an ice pick to guide yourself, but always enjoying those moments of out-of-control spinning, tumbling and slipping on the ice.
The descent of the volcano is worth mentioning too; you climb up trudging like a pack mule. But coming down you squat, lean back and slide for all your worth, using an ice pick to guide yourself, but always enjoying those moments of out-of-control spinning, tumbling and slipping on the ice.
People Make the Place
Despite everything I´ve seen so far, natural wonders and cultural capitals, the people on the street are almost the best part. I never get to photograph them and they´ll be forgotten before long, so here is a lazy attempt to record this overlooked aspect of travelling:
The kid in Puerto Varas walking with, I assume, his grandmother, rocking a full mullet and a Guns and Roses jacket that had been altered to say Punk Rock by changing the G to an P, etc... I almost broke down laughing when I saw that; The waiter at Rap Hamburguer who wanted to know how mispelled the name was in english; The street dogs that lay down at your feet and either sleep or paw at you until you pass them some food; The local women that all wanted to dance with Geoff on New Year's since we was tall and white; The metalhead couple using both sides of a public phonebooth, passing pesos back and forth as they each ran out of minutes; Our canyoning guide who spent 6 months studying mountaineering in Spain; The human pyramid trying to pick fruit off a tall tree down the street from our hostel.
The kid in Puerto Varas walking with, I assume, his grandmother, rocking a full mullet and a Guns and Roses jacket that had been altered to say Punk Rock by changing the G to an P, etc... I almost broke down laughing when I saw that; The waiter at Rap Hamburguer who wanted to know how mispelled the name was in english; The street dogs that lay down at your feet and either sleep or paw at you until you pass them some food; The local women that all wanted to dance with Geoff on New Year's since we was tall and white; The metalhead couple using both sides of a public phonebooth, passing pesos back and forth as they each ran out of minutes; Our canyoning guide who spent 6 months studying mountaineering in Spain; The human pyramid trying to pick fruit off a tall tree down the street from our hostel.
Lessons Learned
--I am not graceful. Not even a little bit. Watching a video of me rapelling down a 37 foot waterfall would probably make you wince at my clumsy technique. But no video exists, and the photos... well, we paid six times more for them than we were told originally, and they are still worth every penny.
--Israelis, love `em or hate `em, have got to be the most travelling group of people in the world. Three nights ago they came in at two in the morning, turned on all the lights, laughing and talking and carrying on like it was daytime. Two nights ago they woke up at three (or rather I was woken at three by an Israeli only wearing a towel, who needed to get into my room to wake the other Israelis) to hike the volcano and again turned on all the lights and talked loudly. Last night was quiet finally, but I woke up with an extra bed and two extra Israelis blocking access to the kitchen in my room. I can go days without interacting with another American, but Israelis are everywhere.
--Travellers will always try to distinguish themselves from tourists. My apologies to the travellers reading this, but we´re no different. We stay longer and spend less money, but we still speak english all day and gawk at the same sights on the same tours. Stop putting yourself on a pedestal.
--There is no such thing as a 'typical' tour. Even in Pucon, where we did a volcano ascent that was exactly like every other tour company, we returned to town and pulled into the guide's driveway so that his family could gather our neon orange uniforms and hiking boots and helmets and assorted junk to be washed and sorted for the next day's trip. It's fascinating to see where the locals live, what condition they live in.
--Touristy locations are not just like home. Sure, they have some of the same stores and restaurants, but just this morning I was walking past a mechanic shop that was playing Twisted Sister´s We´re not gonna take it in Spanish. And for whatever reason, when you hear western pop songs they´re as likely to be covers as originals. I´ve heard Oasis, Alice in Chains and Green Day covers in the last week, and all in english no less.
--Israelis, love `em or hate `em, have got to be the most travelling group of people in the world. Three nights ago they came in at two in the morning, turned on all the lights, laughing and talking and carrying on like it was daytime. Two nights ago they woke up at three (or rather I was woken at three by an Israeli only wearing a towel, who needed to get into my room to wake the other Israelis) to hike the volcano and again turned on all the lights and talked loudly. Last night was quiet finally, but I woke up with an extra bed and two extra Israelis blocking access to the kitchen in my room. I can go days without interacting with another American, but Israelis are everywhere.
--Travellers will always try to distinguish themselves from tourists. My apologies to the travellers reading this, but we´re no different. We stay longer and spend less money, but we still speak english all day and gawk at the same sights on the same tours. Stop putting yourself on a pedestal.
--There is no such thing as a 'typical' tour. Even in Pucon, where we did a volcano ascent that was exactly like every other tour company, we returned to town and pulled into the guide's driveway so that his family could gather our neon orange uniforms and hiking boots and helmets and assorted junk to be washed and sorted for the next day's trip. It's fascinating to see where the locals live, what condition they live in.
--Touristy locations are not just like home. Sure, they have some of the same stores and restaurants, but just this morning I was walking past a mechanic shop that was playing Twisted Sister´s We´re not gonna take it in Spanish. And for whatever reason, when you hear western pop songs they´re as likely to be covers as originals. I´ve heard Oasis, Alice in Chains and Green Day covers in the last week, and all in english no less.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Starting the New Year with a Bang
Arriving in Pucon on January 1st, I was thinking about New Year´s resolutions. Now, confronting your fears is kind of a vague resolution, but that´s more or less what I´ve settled on; I was originally thinking of skydiving here, since where else can you jump out of a plane over an active volcano, but the price ($300) is something I´m not ready to confront.
So instead I´ll be canyoning today (which as I understand it, means rapelling down waterfalls and generally overcoming your fear of heights and cold water) and climbing a volcano tomorrow. Now as some of you know, the first volcano I climbed in Guatemala left me doing a search and rescue with the American Embassy the next day. This trip should me much more organized and I´m not so worried about that, but apparently a volcano about 60 miles north erupted last night for the first time in 20 years-- causing the locals to be evacuated, and somebody at the BBC´s ears to perk up. Its strange looking at international news on the net, knowing it´s taking place an hour away on the bus (and almost making me wish I´d caved in on that skydiving package which probably would have been the best view on the block).
So keep your fingers crossed that the eruption continues until at least tomorrow around lunch, so that I can see it from my volcano, but that it doesn´t cause any other eruptions in this area. Hopefully, my days of search and rescue are over.
So instead I´ll be canyoning today (which as I understand it, means rapelling down waterfalls and generally overcoming your fear of heights and cold water) and climbing a volcano tomorrow. Now as some of you know, the first volcano I climbed in Guatemala left me doing a search and rescue with the American Embassy the next day. This trip should me much more organized and I´m not so worried about that, but apparently a volcano about 60 miles north erupted last night for the first time in 20 years-- causing the locals to be evacuated, and somebody at the BBC´s ears to perk up. Its strange looking at international news on the net, knowing it´s taking place an hour away on the bus (and almost making me wish I´d caved in on that skydiving package which probably would have been the best view on the block).
So keep your fingers crossed that the eruption continues until at least tomorrow around lunch, so that I can see it from my volcano, but that it doesn´t cause any other eruptions in this area. Hopefully, my days of search and rescue are over.
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